THE SUMMER OF 1984

I WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND ¹

(Oh yeah, I'll tell you something
I think you'll understand
When I'll say that something
I wanna hold your hand)

I WANT TO HOLD YOUR HAND.

It is the hottest summer in ten years, or so they say on the radio. It's suffocating, draining every bit of moisture from your body, making sweat run down your back, creating an oddly chilling sensation. Mirages dance over the asphalt, so hot you can't walk around barefoot.

The world is bright, lit up by a kaleidoscope of colors reflected in the water and on the air. The leaves are dark green and full, opened towards the sky.

The flowers are blooming, stretching towards the sunlight, basking in its warmth. They create new masterpieces every day, everchanging and yet never losing its wonder.

It smells good. It smells like summer.

Even so, San decides to stay in the shade, never liking the sun's brutal glares. He hates wearing sunscreen too. Besides, it usually gives him sunburns that hurts like hell.

San sits on the porch, socks in his woven huarache sandals with a cool glass of orange juice in hand, staring at the ants making their way up his driveway from behind his wayfarer sunglasses.

The sunrays have started creeping up his legs, and San knows he should move further away, but is distracted, as usual.

A grey DeLorean pulls up in the driveway across the street. (He might have commented on the obvious Back to the Future reference, but seeing as it wouldn't be released until the following year, he doesn't.)

San watches from the porch, taking another sip of his orange juice as a boy steps out of from the passenger side.

San wonders if he has smoked one too many blunts because how can that boy be real. Even from far away, San can see he's good-looking. Pretty, but not dainty. Delicate, but not breakable.

Neither celestial nor heavenly, he doesn't look like an angel, he looks like something straight out of Lord of The Rings. Like an elf or a spirit, minus the wings, but with hair so red it glimmers neon in the sunlight.

San has never seen anyone quite like it and must admit that he finds himself rather bewitched.

He leaves his orange juice on the steps, careful not to step on the ants as he walks across the street, feet seemingly moving on their own. San isn't thinking straight, clearly, but when does he ever.

San is like the ocean, all push and pull, never fully committing to anything but the next minute of his existence. Maybe that's why he has the courage, or maybe he's just incredibly reckless.

"Haven't seen you here before," San says casually, hands comfortably stuck in the back pockets of his shorts.

"Haven't been here before," The boy answers casually. He looks even prettier up close and San wants to die.

He's is dressed like what his mother would call a troublemaker; Loose fit jeans with flannel down the back instead of denim, pink tie-dye shirt which is by the looks of it homemade, and a well-worn black leather jacket decorated with buttons and silver chains.